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When the judge calls for recess it feels like – not a stay of execution, really, more like someone is running late so it’s been delayed on the technicality. There’s no letting out his breath, is what it means, no loosening of the tension in his neck and shoulders. Just the knowledge that there’s something waiting for him, still, on the other side of these ten minutes, and it’s probably something bad.
Edgeworth had it all planned out from the beginning. Phoenix can’t decide if he’s fuming, that he’s had Adrian Andrews waiting in the wings this whole time, or relieved that it means the trial can continue today, or uneasy about what it means that Edgeworth wants her on the witness stand. It’s almost reassuring. He hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten, he’s out to sea without Maya’s easy familiar presence at his side – at least his simmering, conflicted feelings about Edgeworth are something familiar.
“You need to calm down,” Mia tells him after they talk to Engarde. “Your smile is slipping. Take a walk, clear your head. If Edgeworth is this prepared he’s not going to go easy on you.”
He gets bossed around by Feys all the time these days but nobody ever does it quite like Mia. He’d been pathetically grateful for it, back when they first met, the way she’d pulled him, brute force, up and out of the worst weeks of his life and kept him there through graduation. He still is – emphasis on the pathetic, today. He must nod, or maybe he just walks off; either way nobody follows him.
There’s a small bathroom between the two lobbies, mercifully empty. It’s an old building but the bathroom feels even more outdated, somehow – ugly pale green tile halfway up the wall and ancient, cross-arm faucet handles that you have to turn forever before any water comes out. Phoenix leans heavily over the sink. It’s too quiet, suddenly, away from the soft hum of the courthouse’s daily activity. He can hear his heartbeat, too-fast and pounding in his skull. There’s a ringing in his ears that he’s been ignoring through sheer stubborn willpower until now but it’s catching up with him in the otherwise silent room. He shouldn’t have made that last pot of coffee. It sits uncomfortably in his stomach, tied in knots, and it’s making his hands shake. It’s the coffee. He turns the water on, full blast, just for some sound, turns the handles farther than they should probably be able to go and sticks his hands under the spray out of habit. He’s never been so grateful for the courthouse’s faulty plumbing; the water is always icy cold, refreshing against his skin.
One breath, two, cold damp hands pressed against his cheeks. It’s not quite enough to make him feel like a whole person again but at least he’s a little more awake. God, he’s tired. He didn’t sleep at all. His arms ache, too; somewhere past midnight he’d looked up from his notes to see Pearl curled up on one of the empty rows of chairs in the hotel lobby, exhausted. He’d carried her all the way back to his apartment, guilt twisting in his stomach at keeping her out so late, making her walk so far, he’d completely lost track of time without—
As he’d set her down she’d murmured, half-asleep, “‘sokay, Mystic Maya. Mr. Nick will save you.” Tiny Pearls and her huge trusting heart, the unshakeable faith that he didn’t deserve. Enough to make him a little teary even on a good day.
It hadn’t been a good day. He’d sat heavily on the edge of the bed for a long time, shaking to pieces as silently as he could, hand clapped tightly over his mouth to keep the sob from escaping but not quite willing to let her out of his sight.
He can feel it coming back, building at the top of his throat – more icy water. In what feels like his first moment of clear thought all day he manages to remember to take his tie off before he drags the end of it in the sink. His collar is already soaked, but that could be from the water or the sweat.
He’d read about a breathing exercise, somewhere, that was supposed to calm you down. Something about pushing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. He presses so hard it almost hurts. It doesn’t feel any better. He undoes the top button of his shirt, then another when that doesn’t seem to make it any easier to breathe. Another splash of water and he risks a glance at the mirror.
It’s – not as bad as he’d expected.
He hasn’t changed; hadn’t had any clean shirts left – but he’d been dressed up for the ceremony, so he’s presentable, just a little rumpled. Well. A little rumpled for him, so, a lot rumpled for polite company. He risks taking off his jacket, just to air out for a minute, and as expected he’s sweated through both his undershirt and the dress shirt. The back of his collar is damp, too, and the nape of his neck when he runs his hands through his hair, tacky with gel and dry shampoo.
Still, that’s not so bad. He’s always sweaty in court. There’s a reason all his suit jackets are in dark colors. His dry-cleaning bill might be horrendous but – he’s keeping it together. He can keep it together. He’s pacing, a little, but that’s ok. Just nervous energy, he has to get it out somehow. Mia told him to take a walk: he’s walking.
Can Mia smell when she’s being channeled? He must stink, he hasn’t showered and he’s been sweating bullets all day even without the cold sick feeling that comes over his body every time he hears that voice on the radio. He’s not going to ask her, he’d rather not know the answer.
There are dark smudges under his eyes, and his chin is faintly rough with stubble. He’d never hold up under close inspection but – he takes a few steps back from the mirror – it’s not so bad at a distance. He doesn’t think the judge has noticed. Edgeworth, meticulous as he is, probably cataloged every wrinkle in his shirt the moment he stepped up to the bench, but he’s not thinking about Edgeworth right now.
Or, more accurately, he can’t think about Edgeworth right now. There’s a tiny curl of resentment, tight in the pit of his stomach: he wouldn’t have to think about Edgeworth, if he hadn’t come back to deliver cryptic hints about whatever epiphany he’d had in his year of being — away — goddamn him, Phoenix had been so relieved to see him there’d been spots in his vision. Or maybe that was skipping breakfast. He’s still pissed, though, and utterly unprepared. He thought he’d at least be able to avoid him for another day or two, wait until he had his feet back under him and Maya back at his side and then, maybe, maybe he would have had the composure for a conversation. But—
Another thing he hasn’t been thinking about; he hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but nothing has felt real for the past day and a half and everything had happened so fast this morning and he’d had to push it all aside to have even a chance of scraping through the trial and of course, of course it’s all catching up with him now that he’s alone for the first time since – since.
Edgeworth is here because Franziska’s been shot. Because of something Phoenix is wrapped up in. For all her posturing in court she’s just a kid, it could have been so much worse, he should have thought to warn someone after that call, she’s a kid, she’s the same age as—
It’s like pulling at a loose thread and watching the whole sweater unravel – he realizes too late and suddenly his careful compartmentalization all comes undone. He’s sweating again, cold and clammy. Franziska, shot, as a gift, the man on the radio had said. Pearl, exhausted and still channeling far longer than she should. Like she can tell he’s falling apart, like she knows how badly out of his depth he is. His whole body is – shaking, a little bit. Has been since the trial started. Not enough for anybody to see except for Mia, maybe, but enough for him to feel. It only stops when he holds his breath. His blood must be half made of coffee at this point. His stomach feels filled with acid. Edgeworth back from the dead and reaching out, in that careful awkward way of his, he’d been trying and god, the first thing Phoenix had done was shout at him but what else could anyone expect him to do without Maya, Maya, Maya—
A sudden, wrenching twist in his gut; a flood of sour saliva; he barely makes it into the bathroom stall before he’s coughing up the meager contents of his stomach.
It’s – awful. He’d forgotten. Taken by surprise, he can’t even think past the shock of it. There’s – nothing, just the ringing and the shock and he barely even registers that the weak pained noise echoing off the tile is coming from him.
So much for pulling it together, Phoenix thinks distantly, then his stomach lurches again and he just barely turns fast enough to not be sick on the floor. Nothing comes up but bile – how could it, when he’s barely eaten, his stomach tied in knots all day and it hurts, he can’t make it stop and his eyes are watering and his ears are full of static and then finally, finally the heaving tapers off and he’s left curled over the bowl, gasping. Fingers clenched into fists in the air, grasping for something to hold on to other than the toilet.
His breath is coming far too fast, heart beating so hard he thinks he’d probably be able to see it moving in his chest if he dared to look down. He doesn’t.
Instead he closes his eyes for - he's not sure how long. When his breathing finally starts to even out Phoenix swipes the back of his hand over his mouth with a grimace, reaches out blindly and gropes around until he manages to find the toilet paper. It’s rough against his skin when he blows his nose. Worse than what he buys, even. The mark of a real government building: nothing but the cheapest will do. What a stupid thing to think about. The kind of thing he’d tell Maya; she’d laugh in that way that meant she was taking pity on him, had no idea what he was talking about but knew he was trying to be funny. He’s far enough away that it doesn’t hurt to think.
He should get up. He doesn’t know what to do. It’s like he’s been thrown completely out of his head, all of his thoughts are scattered, hard to reach and even harder to put back in order. He thinks he must be drenched in sweat. Oh, hell, did he get anything on his shirt—
He has to get up, there’s still the rest of the trial – but he feels shaky all over, isn’t sure his legs would hold him if he tried. He tilts sideways, instead, rests his head against the side of the stall. This is disgusting. But if he doesn’t think about it, the cool metal feels soothing the way the water had. If he could just close his eyes a minute—
“…Wright?”
God, he didn’t think he was that tired. Is it normal to hallucinate after throwing up? That can’t be good, right? Phoenix closes his eyes tight enough that he sees starbursts behind his eyelids. Goes to rub them with his hand but then remembers where it’s been and thinks better of it. When he blinks his eyes open again Edgeworth is still standing there.
“Oh,” Phoenix says stupidly. He hadn’t heard the door open at all. “You’re. I didn’t close the stall.”
His voice sounds rough, unfamiliar even to his own ears. Not his own. It adds to the feeling that he’s – out of himself, somehow. Phoenix watches blearily the way Edgeworth frowns, eyes darting to the contents of the toilet, the probably horrific state of Phoenix’s suit pants. How he opens his mouth, closes it again. He’s struck with the sudden, half-hysterical urge to laugh – he so rarely manages to leave Edgeworth speechless.
“Sorry,” Phoenix manages, because if he doesn’t say anything he’s scared Edgeworth might. It hurts to talk. He doesn’t want to think about it but it’s hard not to notice when words just keep spilling out of his mouth, panicky unfiltered half-thoughts. “Sorry, I’m – I’ll get out of your way. Just. I just need a minute, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t be absurd,” Edgeworth snaps. Phoenix’s mouth shuts with an audible click; the hard line of Edgeworth’s mouth softens, barely. “I mean – take as long as you need.”
Phoenix needs – he needs time to sleep, to build a better case, to shower. To brush his teeth, to eat something, to walk every block in the entire goddamn city until he finds the one holding Maya. He needs more time than he could ever be afforded. He doesn’t know how to tell Edgeworth any of that, though, so he doesn’t say anything at all. The silence stretches, unsettled. Phoenix half expects Edgeworth to break it by turning to leave but he doesn’t, just stands there looking uncertain. Looking at Phoenix. Phoenix stares wearily back and thinks, absurd and crystal-clear: I might have to reconsider my stance on faking your own death.
It makes him laugh, a little, despite himself. Barely anything, a tiny exhale. Uncomfortably close to a sob. Edgeworth’s frown deepens.
“Are you ill? You should have said. I’ll speak with the judge, you know we can postpone for things like this, Wright—”
“No,” Phoenix blurts out, urgent, startling both of them. “No, don’t – don’t tell the judge, don’t postpone. I’ll be alright. I just need a minute. I can still—”
“Wright. You’re unwell. I don’t know why you’re so determined to keep going today, but there’s no need to be foolish.”
He doesn’t know how to explain, he can’t find the words but the desperate rushing in his ears is starting to pick up again. “I have to—”
“Wright,” Edgeworth starts, then starts over, softer: “Phoenix,” and he has to blink, hard, against the sudden stinging in his eyes because if Edgeworth is going to say his name like that, like he wants to ask what’s wrong, Phoenix will fall to pieces right here on the floor and he doesn’t have time—
“Don’t—”
Phoenix is too far gone to be embarrassed at the way his voice cracks.
“I can’t, I – please don’t ask. Not right now.”
He can’t even imagine what his face is doing, to make Edgeworth look at him the way he is right now: brow furrowed in faint concern, mouth half-open, like he’d been halfway to saying something but thought better of it. A long, silent look, as if he could see right through to the problem if he just looked at Phoenix hard enough.
Phoenix has never seen Edgeworth make a face like that before. He must be a wreck, to be the one inspiring it. But he knew that already. He’s still trying to catch his breath.
“Alright,” Edgeworth says, finally, mercifully, not pressing. The prickling in his eyes is back. That’s just what he needs, crying on the bathroom floor in front of Edgeworth. And here he’d been thinking his day couldn’t get any worse. “Do you want to get up, at least?”
“Ugh.” Phoenix doesn't, not really. But the perpetual dampness of the bathroom floor is sinking into the fabric of his pants, and – he has to. The longer it takes him to pull himself together the longer Maya has to wait, scared and alone and in danger. There’s nothing to do but get up. He’s already taken an unconscionably long time.
Edgeworth offers a hand to help him up and doesn’t even grimace as Phoenix takes it, despite how fastidious Phoenix knows him to be and his hands were just on the floor of a bathroom stall and he can’t remember whether or not he wiped his mouth on one of them and he has to add that to the mountain of other things he’s very carefully not thinking about. He’s glad for the help, though; his legs still feel unsteady and slow. He leans heavily against the counter and – doesn’t really know what to do after that, or where to look, or what to make of the way Edgeworth is still looking at him, the careful distance and the way he seems to want to reach across it.
“Sorry,” he says again, helpless, because he can’t think of anything else.
“For heaven’s sake, Wright,” Edgeworth says under his breath. He stretches out his arm and Phoenix has the brief, ridiculous thought that Edgeworth is reaching to push his hair from his face – but he’s only reaching for the paper towel dispenser behind him, wetting a paper towel in the sink and holding it out to him and, when Phoenix just stares at him dumbly, pressing it to Phoenix’s forehead himself. It feels wonderful, cool and wet against his skin and then faintly warm underneath that – Edgeworth’s hand on the other side. Phoenix has to fight against the urge to lean into it. He’s not sure he succeeds.
“Stay here. Clean yourself up, you look appalling.”
“...Right.” Phoenix can’t quite bring himself to move just yet. He slides the towel down over his eyes, listens to the click of Edgeworth’s shoes across the room, the flush of the toilet, the door swinging shut. And then he’s alone again.
He doesn’t even know where to begin. Despite himself that helpless laugh is back, building in the back of his throat, high and a little hysterical – god. What a disaster. And of course it would be Edgeworth to walk in, when Edgeworth probably schedules all of his breakdowns weeks in advance just to make sure they don’t take place during business hours.
No – that’s not fair. It’s not fair. And not true, either, which Phoenix knows, despite Edgeworth’s best efforts to the contrary. Turnabout is fair play; maybe he’s had this coming.
Phoenix takes the towel off from over his eyes, risks standing to look at himself in the mirror.
Edgeworth hadn’t been kidding. It’s almost startling: the man staring back at him in the mirror is pale as a sheet and there’s a sickly sheen over his skin, sweat beading visibly on his upper lip. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. He’d looked tired, before, if a little more rumpled than usual, now he looks – haggard. Utterly spent. His clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin. He’d give anything for a shower right now. In the absence of one he washes his hands again. Tries to drink from the sink a little, to rinse out his mouth. The water is metallic and so cold it hurts his teeth. He goes to splash his face again but his limbs are still clumsy; he only realizes when he feels the wetness on his stomach that he’s managed to get water down the front of his shirt. The cheap paper towels aren’t absorbent enough to help very much but he pats himself down anyways, feeling curiously detached.
Giving the shirt up for a lost cause, Phoenix turns to lean back against the counter again. He’ll just have to keep his coat buttoned up, that will hide the worst of it. Probably.
Fixing the rest of it would take time he doesn’t have. But maybe he can sit for a moment longer. His breath is coming slower now, thoughts a little clearer. It’s starting to register, that it wasn’t some kind of bizarre dream. Edgeworth really was there, he really did see – hopefully he doesn’t know what to do about it either, and they can both pretend it never happened.
He isn’t ready to face the world yet, isn’t ready to leave the quiet ugly bathroom. He needs something to do with his hands. Before he can think better of it Phoenix pulls Maya’s magatama out of his pocket and just – looks at it. He’s been trying not to, until now, part of his brilliant compartmentalization strategy. But he needs something to look at other than his own grim reflection.
She’d tried to get him to meditate with her, that first year. Before she went back to Kurain Village she’d been determined to practice right in his office, and insistent that he join her. For moral support or because she thought he needed it; he’s still not sure. Mostly it ended with him getting a glass of water dumped on his head for the crime of falling asleep, or, sometimes, waking up to find her slumped against him, drooling on his shoulder. He should have tried a little harder – it would have made her happy. And maybe he could have put it into practice, now.
Instead: the magatama, turned over and over in his anxious fidgeting hands. The repetitive motion is as close as he’s going to get. The stone is smooth where he runs his thumb across it, and warm – from being in his pocket, he knows, but he imagines it must mean something, somehow, too. That she’s out there. That she’s okay. She has to be okay.
Phoenix registers the creak of the door, this time, but not fast enough for Edgeworth to miss the way he wraps his fingers around the stone, as if he could hide it from view. Keep it safe. He wasn’t expecting Edgeworth to come back.
“Here,” Edgeworth says, holding out a bottle of water and carefully looking Phoenix over. If he notices the damp splotch down Phoenix’s front – and who is Phoenix kidding, of course he does – he doesn’t mention it. Another unexpected kindness.
Phoenix should take the water. He wants to – his throat hurts, he hates it when his throat hurts, Edgeworth brought him the fancy boxed kind, even. But now that Phoenix has the magatama in his hands something aches in his chest at the thought of setting it down on the counter, letting the stone lose its residual heat. He can’t quite bring himself to put it back in his pocket, out of his sight, either. It’s a miracle it hadn’t fallen out earlier, the way he’d half-fallen to the floor. If he’d lost it – his stomach twists again. Best not to think about it.
Edgeworth holds out the water, trying again to make the exchange and then setting the bottle down on the counter when Phoenix’s hands continue to clench unthinking-tight around the magatama, white knuckled.
“Wright,” Edgeworth says, and he clicks his tongue against his teeth as if he’s exasperated but his hands are patient and gentle over Phoenix’s. “You should drink something. I don’t know why you’re insisting on continuing, but they’ll definitely call the trial off if you pass out up there. Unless you want me to—”
Phoenix doesn’t know if he can handle hearing the end of that sentence. His breath hitches, a little, at the feeling of the stone dropping from his hand, but Edgeworth takes it carefully. Looks between it and Phoenix, assessing, as Phoenix unscrews the lid and takes a few tentative sips.
“Miss Fey’s…?”
“Yeah,” Phoenix breathes, but he still can’t manage the words to explain. Edgeworth has surely noticed, by now, that it is not Maya standing beside him, channeling or no. He doesn’t ask. Another surge of that overwhelming pathetic gratitude; Phoenix’s knees go a little weak with it.
Miles slides the stone into Phoenix’s chest pocket.
“There you go,” he says, and for one long suspended moment his hand stays there – over the magatama, over Phoenix’s stupid aching heart. He’s wrenched open, raw and exposed. He doesn’t have a clue what Miles could possibly be thinking or how he’s supposed to respond. It’s all – too much. It’s all too much.
Before he has to figure it out the pressure is gone, Miles’ hand pulling back and reaching into his pocket. He looks – mildly embarrassed, maybe, but Phoenix doesn’t have the energy to think about it so he just accepts what’s pressed into his hand.
“And chew that. I don’t want to smell your breath all afternoon, it’s atrocious.”
If a stick of gum is going to make Phoenix cry he’s really in trouble. He looks down, tries to dedicate all of his attention to unwrapping it. Blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes and hopes Miles is uncomfortable enough at the blatant display of emotion that he’s looking away.
“Thanks,” he rasps out, then: “Eugh. What flavor is that supposed to be—?”
Miles scoffs. “Clearly cinnamon – did you even read the label or will you just put any old thing in your mouth? It’s a miracle you don’t get sick more often.” It’s oddly comforting, getting gently, carefully – berated? Teased? He isn’t sure.
“It’s disgusting,” he says, rather than try to figure it out. Not up to his usual standards, as witty retorts go, but – he thinks Miles will cut him some slack. “...Thank you.”
It is disgusting. But the sharp burst of flavor is a welcome contrast to the sour, fuzzy feeling in his mouth, and the lingering nausea is starting to ebb away. His thoughts are starting to come together again, eased by Miles’ even breathing and his quiet company, offered without expectation. It should be strange. He feels strange, like he’s been flung so far out of himself that he’s come all the way around to feeling halfway like a person again. He’s not sure what Miles is doing. Maybe Miles isn’t sure what Miles is doing – he keeps looking at Phoenix and then away, drawing a breath like he’s going to speak then holding it, silent. It’s hard to imagine that he’d stand here all this time without some kind of reason, though.
“Shit,” Phoenix realizes, suddenly stricken, “how long have we been – the trial—”
Miles looks down at his watch and hums, unconcerned. “It doesn’t matter. They can’t very well start without us.”
“Oh. Right.”
Another thought returns –
“You’re sure Franziska is alright?”
If Miles is fazed by the abrupt change of subject he doesn’t show it. “I wouldn’t have come if she weren’t.”
“Good,” Phoenix says, “that’s – that’s good. That she’s ok. And that you came –” too honest, he hadn’t meant to let that slip out, not when the part of him that’s not exhausted still wants to get into a screaming match – “I mean. I think she might have just pushed me into the toilet.”
If they weren’t so close together Phoenix doesn’t think he’d hear the quiet little huff of air. As it is he still half-wonders if he imagined it.
“Don’t be absurd,” Miles says, and: “where on earth is your tie?”
“Uh,” Phoenix says eloquently, utterly lost, then his brain catches up and he points somewhat helplessly at the crumpled piece of fabric draped over the soap dispenser. Miles’ mouth purses with displeasure; Phoenix feels what on another day might have been a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth at the familiarity of it. “Didn’t want it to get wet.”
“I don’t know what I was expecting.”
Another long moment of quiet, still strangely comfortable. Phoenix takes another sip of water, takes the tie when Miles holds it out. He always ties it too short the first time, even with the mirror, but then it’s hardly the most embarrassing thing Miles has seen him do today.
“Thank you for asking,” Miles says, softly, once Phoenix is distracted by the knot. “I know she is not – easy.”
“She’s just a kid,” Phoenix says. “She shouldn’t have been – of course I’d ask.”
“I would not let her hear you say that,” Miles says, raising an eyebrow in the direction of his reflection. “But – yes. She is still very young. Many people forget. As she intends them to, I suppose.”
Phoenix hums, understanding. There are all sorts of things he’d prefer people would forget about him. He’s living one of them right now. And Franziska – a young woman trying to make a name for herself, in the footsteps and the shadow of her father and of Miles – it cannot have been easy. She is not easy. But she is terribly brave.
Miles, too, must have his own list of things he’d prefer people forget: that he had been young, once, and trusted the wrong people. That he is not the infallible, untouchable young man he has appeared to be since he first stepped behind the bench – that he is as human as anybody else. In the wake of that being exposed, publicly and relentlessly – Phoenix can start to understand, maybe, why he’d left, even if he’s still blisteringly angry.
But Miles is there. Miles is right here, in front of him, alive and stilted and clearly uncomfortable but – here. Inexplicably, even when it would have been infinitely easier to walk back out the door and pretend he’d never seen a thing, to save a few dollars on overpriced water and disgusting stale gum and Phoenix remembers, again, the horrible things he’d said to him the day before.
He’s been brave, too, to come back.
“Miles,” Phoenix says, and is close enough to see the way he jolts, just barely, at his name. “I really am glad you’re here.”
Something flashes across his face, too fast for Phoenix to fully read. What he does catch looks, awfully, like surprise. Like he didn’t expect Phoenix to mean it – fair enough, with the reception Phoenix has given him so far.
A stab of remorse, sharp and sudden: however hurt Phoenix had been at his disappearance it was Miles who’d felt he had no other options. And it’s Miles who’s made the choice to return now, Miles who’s made the tentative reach towards Phoenix even with all that furious anger aimed at him in return.
As tied to him as he’d felt – as he’s always felt, as he still feels under it all – Phoenix never really knew, in the end, what was going on in Miles’ head. They’d barely started speaking regularly again, and then it had been too late and something in Phoenix fractured and he’d tried to plaster over the cracks with furious anger, the same anger he’s been directing at Miles ever since he saw him in the criminal affairs department and the only reason he hadn’t punched him was that he’d been trying not to faint. He’s never been very handy. The cracks showed through.
He means it. More than he realized even as the words were leaving his mouth. Bluffing his way to the truth as usual: he’s glad Miles is here. In the general sense of the thing and the specific – glad he’s alive, glad he’s come back, glad he’s here in this particular shabby bathroom, handing Phoenix a stick of the worst gum he’s ever tasted on what is rapidly ascending the ranks of the worst days of Phoenix’s life.
What a way to have a revelation. Phoenix presses it immediately to the back of his mind; he can’t even begin to think about it right now.
He only realizes they’ve been staring at each other when Miles looks away – down and to the side, the same flustered expression he’s made since he was nine.
“That’s – I mean. I wasn’t sure.”
Another stab of guilty gratitude. Miles, unsure of his welcome but pressing in all the same. Phoenix can’t even begin to unravel what it means, not without more sleep, not with his thoughts still only just piecing themselves back together. Not when he still has so much work to do.
Icewater down his spine: not when Maya is still—
“I can’t do this right now,” he blurts, realizes it’s come out too blunt when Miles stiffens. “Sorry, no, I mean – I want to talk, Miles, I do, but I have to – god, the trial, I can’t—”
His disjointed thoughts are enough to get Miles to look up from where he’s been burning a hole in the floor with his gaze. Whatever he sees in Phoenix’s face makes his eyes widen, just barely.
“Wright – Phoenix. Breathe. It will keep.”
“Will it? You won’t – go?” Maybe Phoenix wants to do this now after all, a little bit. He means for it to come out angry but his voice is still sandpaper-rough, desperate.
Either way, Miles flinches.
“Not without – we’ll talk, Phoenix.”
Miles looks him in the eye as he says it; the fight drains out of Phoenix in an instant.
“Okay,” Phoenix says, holding his gaze. “That’s – okay. That’s good.”
Another long silence. Easier, now, with the promise of – well, Phoenix isn’t sure what, exactly. He hadn't expected Miles to acquiesce so easily; he didn't have a plan beyond maybe arguing with him, or maybe crying if he was really desperate.
Instead he's momentarily frozen, unwilling to break the peace even though they’ve definitely run out the clock on the recess and then some by now. It’s like they’ve been suspended, pulled from the courthouse and into some other place, quiet and far away. The sink is still running. His mouth tastes like cinnamon. Miles is here – still here, he’s still here – and for the first time in days Phoenix takes a breath and his chest doesn’t feel tight.
“We should—”
“It’s probably—”
Whatever trance they’d been in breaks along with the silence. Phoenix clears his throat, looks down at the knees of his pants; dry enough, now, that he thinks it won’t be immediately noticeable. And he’ll be standing behind the bench, anyways. He just has to make it into the room. He can probably do that. Miles follows his gaze; Phoenix’s embarrassment returns, sudden and swift and hot on his face.
“This was all part of my brilliant defensive strategy,” he mumbles. “For the record.” Miles makes a quiet little sound, feigned agreement or laughter or disbelief.
“I’m sure. Trying to disarm the prosecution, Mr. Wright? For shame.”
“Well?” Phoenix raises an eyebrow, gestures at his disheveled reflection in the mirror. “Are you disarmed?”
“Yes,” Miles says, then reaches out to calmly straighten Phoenix’s collar, as if it were nothing, as if he hadn’t just knocked Phoenix’s legs out from under him. Damn. And he wasn’t going to think about it—
“Believe me,” Phoenix says hoarsely, “you’re more than welcome to forget this ever happened.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, and he’s Edgeworth again, mouth twisting into a gentler version of his usual scowl. “I’m still quite capable of victory today. Your little scheme won’t help you.”
A perfect, graceful out; back to their usual roles. It would be a lot easier to stay mad at him, Phoenix thinks, if he weren’t so awfully, secretly kind.
“There,” he says, turning Phoenix by the shoulders and giving him one last once-over in the mirror. “As presentable as you ever are, I suppose.”
Phoenix doesn’t feel particularly presentable. Still. He’s upright, which is more than he thought he’d be able to manage about five minutes ago.
“Thanks,” he says, drily, then: “I mean. Really. Thank you.”
Edgeworth meets his eyes in the mirror, a trace of that earlier softness still there. Phoenix’s chest goes a little tight. Then, abruptly, it seems he’s reached the end of his endurance of – whatever this has been. Edgeworth rolls his shoulders back, just a hair, posture straightening closer to that of the imposing figure Phoenix knows will be waiting for him behind the prosecutor’s bench.
“Well,” he says, suddenly stilted. “Wright.”
Phoenix nods, tries for a smile that feels marginally less plastered on. Edgeworth looks only mildly pained; he’s not sure whether that means he succeeded or not.
“I’d say go get ‘em, but. Well. I’d rather you didn’t, actually.”
Edgeworth doesn’t roll his eyes but he’s definitely thinking about it.
“I’m going to go find another restroom, as this one is clearly out of order. Five minutes, Wright.”
Phoenix listens to him leave for the second time – the click of dress shoes across tile, the creak of the door, the pause, for just a moment, as he looks back. Phoenix doesn't know what he's looking for but he must find it because he catches Phoenix’s eye and nods, once.
The door creaks shut. Deep breath, cold water on his face. The magatama a solid weight over his heart. Phoenix rolls his shoulders the way Miles had, to not nearly as imposing an effect.
Maya is going to find out about this, someday, and laugh until her stomach hurts. She’ll hold it over his head for years and someday, Phoenix thinks as he pushes open the door, someday it will be far enough away that maybe he’ll be able to laugh about it too. But for now – he tries to hold on to that moment of stretching quiet, the way he’d suddenly been able to breathe again. Tries to take it with him even as he steps back into the hall.
Phoenix reenters the defendant’s lobby with a smile on his face. He thinks it might even be real.